Another repeat.  I really enjoyed writing this one.


Saturday, September 15, 2012

Well, what does it say about me?

From Wikipedia:
Narcissism is a term with a wide range of meanings, depending on whether it is used to describe a central concept of psychoanalytic theory, a mental illness, a social or cultural problem, or simply apersonality trait. Except in the sense of primary narcissism or healthy self-love, "narcissism" usually is used to describe some kind of problem in a person or group's relationships with self and others. In everyday speech, "narcissism" often means egoism, vanity, conceit, or simple selfishness. Applied to a social group, it is sometimes used to denoteelitism or an indifference to the plight of others. Inpsychology, the term is used to describe both normal self-love and unhealthy self-absorption due to a disturbance in the sense of self.



I called my good friend, Kristi, years ago, and when I asked her what she was up to, she replied,
"Oh, just reading a book on narcissistic personality disorder" and without missing a beat I asked,
"Really? Does it say anything about me?"

See?

I can call myself out.

("I don't want you to CHANGE the behavior, just NOTICE it when it's happening.")

And, because I can recognize my own short-comings and pequadillos, and make some self-effacing joke about them, you like me better.

(Maybe I planned it all along.)
(You'll never know.)
(Yeah.)
(You are freakin' out, man.)
(I'm inside your head, doin' a little Lionel Richie thing, right there on your MIND!)
(Yeah, I did.)
(yeah.......)


Annnnyyyyhoo...

I bring this up along with the Walter Mitty reference from the previous post because Michael Duncan Clarke died.

That's a bummer.
He was a good actor and seemed like a genuinely nice guy.
Tom Hanks delivered the eulogy (one of them anyway).
He seemed like a big teddy bear of a guy.
(Clarke not Hanks)
(Hanks has a good rep too, though).
But, to be honest, that's not why I'm bothered.

Don't get me wrong, it's sad that Clarke died and all, and I'm sure Omirossa-
(why do I know that name!?!)
(I f#@ing hate that I know that name)
-is all sad and it's tragic for her, but because Clarke has died an untimely death, I have to change my whole speech and that sucks because the speech was really good.

Some dude falls over and now the whole thing goes out the window.
That really stinks.
I put a lot of effort into that speech.

Most of my life, I've been a pretty internal guy.
I spend a lot of time up inside my head.
It can get pretty crowded in there.
Every now and again I have to step outside when the noise and aggravation gets to be too much.
(It's not as hard as you think)
(I'll show you sometime.)
It's like being in New York City on a busy Monday: people hustling here and there, and the cars, and the buses, and the taxis, and the horns, and the smell alone will gag you.
Not that anything important is going on.
It's just chaotic as hell up there.
I'm here physically, but mentally, I'm just making land after a 3 day run with a hull full of bootleg whiskey.
(You see?)
(Did it again.)
And the thing with Clarke dying is that I won't be able to give the speech that I had written for the Oscars.
No, no, no, ...stop it...listen...

I'm there.
I'm at the Oscars because I've been nominated for something.
Am I an actor?
A writer?
Musician?
Caterer?
I have no idea.
You're missing the point.
And stop interrupting.
So, I'm at The Oscars and I'm in my tux (I look good) and I'm at my table with my adoring wife/girlfriend/model/actress/waitress who looks all gorgeous and doe-eyed and the MC steps to the mike and says:

"And now, the Oscar for Handsome-Young-Go-Getter and and All Around Righteous Dude goes to............(drum roll).....

"El Pinche Pirata del Fuego!!!!!"

And the crowd goes nuts and there's a big standing ovation as I pause to kiss my model/actress/waitress/wife/girlfriend on my way to the stage.
And, of course, in my head, I'm thinking (in the head of the person in the daydream that is), "how did
lil ol' me" from Middleburg, Florida get all the way to Hollywood, "Cal-i-Forn-I-A" and on this stage, right now, to get this little gold man!?!"

Incredible.

And I pause for a second and gaze at the crowd as if I'm just standing there, taking it all in, and I start the speech, which, in part, goes something like:

"I came to Hollywood with a mission.
I had a plan.
When I showed up (X) number of years ago, my plan was to:
A.)  Bang a lot of hot, young, Hollywood tail (here I would mime something to George Clooney - a little self-effacing gay joke to get the crowd on my side)(maybe a quick "Call me George pantomime?")
B.)  Win an Oscar
C.)  To give Michael Duncan Clarke a big hug.
Thank you for helping me achieve exactly one of those goals tonight!"
And the crowd would erupt into applause and laughter.

And Michael Duncan Clarke, who would've been in the crowd the whole time, jumps to his feet, holds his arms up and gives me the "put'er there" signal, and I would leave the stage to give Michael Duncan Clarke a big hug, and thus completing the joke/speech, and there would be howls of laughter and applause (again) and lots of pats on the back and "attaboys" and such.
It's a great fugue moment.

But now it won't happen.

Even the daydream seems wrong.
His death injects reality into to my mental meanderings.

It's one thing if an event is unlikely to happen but completely different if it will NEVER happen.

I know what you're thinking:
"EPPdF: Why do you have fantasies about embracing large black men while an audience of rich white people looks on?
Hmmmm.....?"

The thing is...that... no...I don't think you....well, .....

HEY!!!
Stop making this thing Gay.

Jeez! The man just died and you're making gay jokes on his grave for Chrissakes!
Really!?!
Show some class, man!
It's a God Dammed tragedy, is what it is.



I should probably talk to somebody.


http://www.latimes.com/news/obituaries/la-michael-clarke-duncan-dead-0903,0,7426494.story